I have never been so relieved to see a petrol station in my life. There we were, trundling through the Ibizan countryside in our hire car, convinced we were minutes from Villa Sada, when the sat nav decided to have a small existential crisis and send us down what I can only describe as a goat track with delusions of grandeur. My partner was driving, white-knuckled, while I clutched a rapidly warming bag of supermarket croissants and tried to look like I knew exactly where we were going. Reader, I did not. We had been on the road since our crack-of-dawn flight from Gatwick, surviving on airport coffee and misplaced optimism, and now we were lost in the Santa Eulalia hills with nothing but a dwindling fuel gauge and my stubborn refusal to admit defeat.

The petrol station attendant, bless him, took one look at our frazzled faces and immediately understood. He pointed us back toward Santa Eulalia des Riu with the patient air of a man who had redirected countless clueless tourists, and twenty minutes later we finally spotted the villa's gates. I practically wept.

Villa Sada itself is one of those places that makes you forget your troubles the moment you step through the door. The open-plan kitchen and living area was flooded with afternoon light, and I made a beeline for the terrace to take in the view. The private pool glimmered below, framed by pine trees and that distinctive Ibizan landscape of dusty greens and warm stone. But I will be honest with you: after our navigational ordeal, I was thinking about one thing and one thing only. Food.

We had done a quick shop at Mercadona on the way from the airport, filling our trolley with the confident ambition of people who absolutely intended to cook proper meals every night. Olive oil, garlic, tomatoes, local sobrasada sausage, a wedge of manchego, crusty bread, and several bottles of wine that we told ourselves were for cooking. The villa's kitchen, with its modern appliances and generous counter space, seemed to wink at us. We were going to eat like kings.

That first evening, we kept things simple. Pan con tomate, which I had convinced myself I could master despite never having attempted it before. I stood at the kitchen island, rubbing garlic cloves and ripe tomatoes against toasted bread with the concentration of a surgeon, drizzling olive oil with what I felt was appropriate theatrical flair. My partner opened wine and offered encouragement from a safe distance. The result was not pretty, but by that point we were ravenous and outdoors on the terrace, watching the sky turn pink, and it tasted like the best thing I had ever eaten. We followed it with grilled prawns from the local fishmonger we had spotted in Santa Eulalia town, cooked on the villa's barbecue with nothing but lemon and more garlic. I ate until I was slightly uncomfortable, which is the only proper way to eat on holiday.

The next morning, we discovered the Santa Eulalia market. It sprawls through the town on certain days, and we stumbled upon it in that happy way you do when you are still disoriented and everything feels like a discovery. Stalls heaped with local oranges, avocados, and figs. A woman selling homemade hierbas, that herbal liqueur the Ibizans are so fond of, which she let us sample with a grandmotherly insistence. We bought more than we could reasonably carry: soft goat cheese wrapped in paper, strings of dried peppers, a sticky ensaimada pastry that we tore into before we had even left the square, sugar dusting our clothes like evidence.

Back at Villa Sada, I developed what I can only describe as kitchen delusions of grandeur. That afternoon, I attempted a proper paella on the hob, having watched approximately one YouTube video and feeling fully qualified. The rice stuck to the pan in a way that felt personal. The seafood was slightly overcooked. I stood there, wooden spoon in hand, staring at my creation with the wounded pride of someone who had genuinely expected better of themselves. My partner, wisely, said it was delicious and helped himself to a second bowl. We ate it by the pool, and I consoled myself with the fact that even failed paella in Ibiza is still paella in Ibiza, which puts it ahead of most meals anywhere else.

By day three, we had settled into a rhythm. Breakfast on the terrace with market oranges squeezed into juice, yoghurt, and that crusty bread with proper butter, which I know is not very Spanish of me but I cannot help what I love. Lunches were lazy affairs of cheese and ham and whatever vegetables looked appealing, assembled rather than cooked, eaten in swimming costumes with wet hair. Dinners became our project. We walked into Santa Eulalia proper one evening, down to the marina with its restaurants and bars, but somehow ended up back at the villa with bags of fresh fish and the determination to do better.

I will say this for Villa Sada: having that kitchen, that barbecue, that outdoor dining space with its view, it makes you want to cook even when you should probably leave it to professionals. One night, my partner attempted grilled octopus after a conversation with the fishmonger that involved a lot of gesturing and mutual goodwill but possibly some critical misunderstandings. The octopus was chewy. We laughed until we cried, drinking too much local wine, and finished the evening with bread and cheese like the sophisticated adults we are.

The villa's location, just those few minutes from Santa Eulalia town, meant we could pop out for supplies whenever inspiration struck. We found a small bakery that did proper croissants, finally replacing the sad warm ones from our journey. A charcuteria where an elderly man sliced jamon with theatrical precision and talked us into various things we did not need but absolutely wanted. By the end of the week, our fridge was a chaotic treasure of leftovers and good intentions, and I had developed an embarrassing attachment to a particular brand of Ibizan almond biscuits that I stocked up on before leaving.

On our final morning, I made one last pan con tomate. It actually looked presentable this time, the tomato properly grated, the bread properly crisp, the olive oil making slow golden pools. I carried it out to the terrace and ate slowly, watching the early light on the pool, thinking about how a week ago we had arrived frazzled and lost and slightly bickering. The villa had settled us, but more than that, the rhythm of shopping and cooking and eating together had turned us into something resembling functional humans. We had not mastered Ibizan cuisine, not by any stretch. But we had participated in it, messily and enthusiastically, and that felt like its own kind of success.

I finished my coffee, left the washing up for later, and went for one last swim before we had to pack. Some holidays are about what you see. This one, I realised, had been about what we ate, and the small domestic happiness of preparing it together in a kitchen that was not ours but had welcomed us anyway.